


for reasons unknown

by mido



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Humanstuck, M/M, shamelessly pale sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 12:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mido/pseuds/mido
Summary: “No, fuck you, I’m doing perfectly fine, I don’t need to inhale any more of your fucking fumes and I most certainly don’t need your damn help with Shakespearean fucking sonnets of all things, go die.” Is what you manage to squeeze out when you eventually snap out of your initial shock. Gamzee doesn’t look taken aback at all at your abrasiveness to his suggestion; in fact, he looks a little pleased with himself, which only pisses you off further. “I ain’t trying to imply you’re having any trouble, brother.” He says languidly, sticking his thumbs into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I’m just asking if you’re all up and down for a motherfucking study date.”





	for reasons unknown

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song by the killers

To be fair, it was your fault for taking the class in the first place. Nobody other than romance geeks and people sniffing around for easy credits took Introduction to Poetry-- you’d like to classify yourself as the former, but you couldn’t deny the allure of the latter as well. Gamzee, you’d assumed, was a mix of the two as well, though he seemed to be leaning much further towards the “free credit” side way more than yourself. He turned in everything on time to your knowledge, however, so you couldn’t really assume the previous statement with certainty anymore. Sure, he never shared his work with your peers unless it was at the professor’s personal request (which happened more often than you’d originally thought it would), but the guy seemed genuinely interested in the class. You suppose that’s why you don’t turn him down immediately when he approaches you after class as usual with a favor to ask. 

“No, fuck you, I’m doing perfectly fine, I don’t need to inhale any more of your fucking fumes and I most certainly don’t need your damn help with Shakespearean fucking sonnets of all things, go die.” Is what you manage to squeeze out when you eventually snap out of your initial shock. Gamzee doesn’t look taken aback at all at your abrasiveness to his suggestion; in fact, he looks a little pleased with himself, which only pisses you off further. “I ain’t trying to imply you’re having any trouble, brother.” He says languidly, sticking his thumbs into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I’m just asking if you’re all up and down for a motherfucking study date.” 

You glare up at him (fuck him for having the _audacity_ to be a solid foot and a half taller than you) and feel your cheeks flush with irritation. “What makes you think I’d ever agree to such a dick-shriveling opportunity?” You spit, flaring your nostrils to try and make yourself look angrier than you actually are. Gamzee sees right through you as usual, though, and smiles at what would be an insult to anyone else on the planet. “Because, brother, I know you always got a hankering something fierce for some motherfucking iced caramel macchiato after class,” --he pauses, blinking lazily-- “and I ain’t so dumb as to forget my best friend’s up and lost his job.” 

It takes you a second to process that (when did you tell him in the first place?-- oh, that's right, last week when you were drunk you ended up ranting about your manager firing you to him), but when you do you clench your fists and dig your nails into your palms to keep from yelling, because he has a point. Free coffee, and likely free snacks knowing Gamzee, is too good an offer to pass up, no matter how loud your pride shouts. 

So you end up snapping your mouth shut and following him, head down in shame and metaphorical tail between your legs. Gamzee trots alongside you like a happy calf, and at some point he grabs your hand (still a balled into a fist) and unfurls it, then twines his fingers with yours and runs his thumb along the outline of your knuckles, swinging your clasp on each other as you walk to the Starbucks next to the Domino's right outside of campus. Begrudgingly, you squeeze his hand in reciprocation, and he grins like a kid in a candy store.

The bell above the door rings like Cupid's harp when you two enter, and you find it grossly fitting for your situation as you end up tugging your hand away from his grasp before you walk in, to which Gamzee responds with the expression of a kicked puppy. You catch yourself thinking, though, that he'll be back to his content self as soon as you pull out the poetry anthology that serves as the textbook for the class in question. Gamzee orders for you both, having shown that he already memorized your order (iced caramel macchiato for you with an extra shot of vanilla syrup, and a white chocolate coconut milk latte for himself), and you find yourself just a little dumbstruck at him remembering you like your coffee extra sweet, and even moreso at his own order. You never pegged him as the fancy coffee kind of guy. 

The name on the side of his cup reads 'Gamzy' and your name is spelled with c's instead of k's, but as he grabs them both while you unload your messenger bag at one of the tables and he places yours in front of you, you find you really don't feel like starting a fight with an incompetent barista right now. You almost think that it would mess up your date for a moment, but you push the thought to the back of your head before you can embarrass yourself by taking this more seriously than Gamzee is. Said male has spread himself out over his side of the booth, legs comfortably apart and arms draped over the back.

You stir up and take a sip of your drink (disgustingly sweet, just how you like it), then open your anthology to the Shakespeare section. “If you’re thinking you’re going to lure me into a plain fucking date with just free coffee, you’re goddamn insane.” You admonish him. Gamzee doesn’t bat an eye at your insinuation, instead leaning forward and taking a generous glance at the sonnet you’ve opened the anthology to. “Just getting comfortable, brother of mine.” He smiles stupidly at you, at which you pluck up your pencil and poke his forehead with the eraser end. “Get out your notebook, dumbass.”

Gamzee complies, pulling a tattered red notebook and a nearly empty pen from his backpack and opening to a fresh page, writing the date in the top right corner neatly. “This Shakespeare motherfucker wasn’t the first guy to write a sonnet, right?” Gamzee asks, pointing his capped pen at Sonnet 130 on the page. “Prof said it was Petrarch, the dude with the octave and a sestet.” 

“Yes, Gamzee, Shakespeare hopped on the fucking bandwagon late with some new bullshit structure that he only got away with because he was massive-cock-playwright Shakespeare to begin with, and made everyone believe he was that bitch. Enlighten me on what you interpreted our assignment as.” You say, pinching the bridge of your nose in half frustration, half prideful urge to stay in character. Gamzee purses his lips thoughtfully, taking a sip of his latte and leaving a ring of greyish face paint around the straw.

“Prof got us paraphrasing three of motherfucker’s sonnets of our choice, ain’t it?” He looks at you like he’s expecting you to say he’s wrong or something, but unfortunately for him, that’s exactly what the professor had asked of them-- plus, to write a sonnet of their own in the same three-quatrain-one-couplet structure using the same techniques as the ones they chose. You nod and turn the anthology book around so that Gamzee’s not reading upside down. “I already have my three, pick yours.” You instruct him. He looks down at the book, then up at you in amazement. “Already, brother?” He asks, awed. 

You resist the urge to poke him on the forehead with your pencil again-- it’ll get paint on your eraser. “I picked them in class, you idiot.” You tell him, twirling your chosen writing utensil between your fingers and trying to think of a topic for your own sonnet. You know love is the most common one, death being second, but though you’re a sucker for romantic poems you just can’t see yourself writing one about anyone, much less yourself writing one to begin with. “I’m doing Shakespeare’s one-thirty, eighteen and one-sixteen.”

Gamzee’s expression shows he’s impressed without any room for misunderstanding, and you have to duck behind your macchiato to hide from his interested gaze, taking a feeble sip as the ice clinks against each other in your cup. “One-thirty is the one where he rails on her something mean, right? Eighteen’s the motherfucking summer’s day one, but I don’t think I got my knowing on for one-sixteen.” He admits sheepishly, though you’re already a little floored that he knows the other two’s numbers off the top of his head. “It’s the one about marriage and shit.” You manage to say, ears flushing reddish at admiration for his memory, and then flushing darker when you realize you’re admiring Gamzee’s fucking poetry knowledge. You suppose you really should give up while you’re ahead as your pride begs, but alas, you’re nothing if not stubborn.

“I wanna do one-thirty too.” He decides, then after flipping through the anthology and skimming a couple, he continues-- “one-thirty-four and one-oh-four.” 

You two end up poring over your respective chosen poems for an hour, with approximately forty-five minutes of that being with empty cups. You get kicked out once the employees notice you both aren’t making to buy anything more anytime soon, and though you scream that they’re a fucking coffee shop, people come in here with the specific intention of either buying coffee or leeching off the wifi, which you were only doing _one_ of, you let yourself be pulled outside by Gamzee, who’s carefully stuck your notebook and pencil back into your messenger bag, handle now held in his hand as he holds it out for you to take. You snatch it away a little more aggressively than necessary and loop it over your neck again for ease of carrying, but Gamzee doesn’t look offended, just follows like some amalgamation of duckling and clown while you fume and storm all the way to your apartment.

When you get there you slide off your loafers at the door, and toss your bag onto the coffee table in your tiny living room that consists of said table, a ratty couch, and a TV you stole from your dad’s house that used to sit in your room when you were younger perched on a stool. Carpeting covers the floor everywhere but the kitchen, stained with remnants of cheap coffee and wine and vomit you just _can’t seem_ to get out of the damn carpet, as well as greyed from its initially white state. Which, to be fair, was going to be impossible to sustain in the first place, you being an immature college student and all. Gamzee stands awkwardly in the doorway until he seems to register that he should probably take his shoes off first, so he unties his Converse and drops them on the plastic doormat next to yours. 

“Up for a movie?” You ask, motioning for him to join you on the couch, and when he does you toss your legs over his lap, laughing inwardly at his surprise. “Thought we were gonna keep motherfucking studying.” He wonders aloud, but he doesn’t really sound disappointed at your suggestion. You give him a look. “We were in there for a goddamn hour and made some good fucking progress, this shit isn’t due until the end of the week.” You say, as if that gives you a free pass to be lazy for now, which, it kind of does. He rubs his chin as if he’s actually considering what you’ve said and relaxes into the couch cushions the next moment. “Movie away, brother.”

You being you, you open Netflix and go straight to the romcom section, which isn’t that far from your watch history anyway. 

Halfway through 50 First Dates you’re already in tears, and Gamzee’s pushed your legs off him gently so that he can throw an arm around your shoulders and tug you into a side-hug. He rubs comforting circles into your clavicle, and as you sniff you wonder how you suddenly became so used to his affection. You suppose you don’t really care, though, as long as you can still hear his quiet giggles when something funny happens on screen.

By the end of your second movie (The Notebook), you’re tired out from all the crying. It’s in this haze of post-tears pre-sleep that you let Gamzee stand you up and usher you into your bedroom, cramped and housing a twin-size bed that likely has at least one hole in the mattress, as well as at least twenty pillows you’ve snagged from various locations over the years (mostly your dad’s house). “Gamzee.” You manage to blurt through a mucus-laden throat, hoarse like you always are after a movie marathon. He perks up when you say his name, and you grab at his sleeve, tugging him into bed with you. You land on your back against the covers and he trips and collapses against your stomach, knocking the breath out of you but somehow not enough to keep you from laughing. “You’re a real sappy motherfucker, you know that?” He smiles stupidly up at you. You flush and turn your face away, but he climbs on top of you and pulls you into the bed properly, wrapping his body around you like cling wrap. “I can’t breathe, dumbass.” You shove your arms between the two of you, giving yourself some room to think but not really pushing Gamzee away either. He doesn’t stray, though, just throwing his arm over you comfortably and snuggling up against you, likely leeching off your warmth. 

“We should change.” You attempt to fight the mood, but Gamzee just hums contentedly. “I’m wearing jeans.” Another satisfied hum from the clown. “You have your makeup on.” He doesn’t speak, just closes his eyes and grins. You sigh, and submit to your fate of being cuddled.

He presses his forehead to yours, likely smearing white face paint on your face, but you find you can’t be bothered to tell him to stop. He exhales, and it should be gross, him breathing onto your face like that, since his breath does smell like stale sweets and coffee, but the warmth calms you, and soon you find yourself drifting off. “Night.” You mumble, and your consciousness fades as Gamzee threads a hand through your hair.

If you wake up tomorrow morning and find it’s Wednesday, not the Saturday you wished it were, you don’t invite Gamzee to breakfast. You definitely don’t con him into Waffle House.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a stupid sap and can never truly escape homestuck


End file.
